He's unwell. He's been unwell for a while. He's been putting up at the club more, been out less. His friends haven't called for him, apart for a young Honourable who swoons over ladies he cannot have. Thomas once tried to pursue James but it had gone a bit haywire. Still, the boy does call on him now and then, usually to gush over some cow-eyed girl. Now he lays in his bunk on a ship to India. He has not fought Charles on it. He'd not had the energy. His cousin is a strong man, a man of strict morals and he was defending his wife.
She had tried to be kind to him. She had invited him to each and every dinner party, she had asked him to accompany her and Charles to every event they were invited to. She always had a box of his brand of cigarettes and a bottle of his preferred scotch in the library. She conferred with the cook to make sure his favourite dessert would be served when he came to stay a weekend and she had planned parties for his birthday.
Why did the woman have to get pregnant? He asks himself as his head spins.
The heaving of the ship worsens his condition terribly. His fever is through the roof. Crawley has gone out to find the ship's doctor, but he knows what he'll say. He has a liver complaint and he's been out of doors, catching a chill. His coughs are wrecking his body.
Pneumonia on a weakened body. He knows it will not end well.
He'd not told his cousin while he suppressed his coughs as they sat across from each other, a desk between them. He had seen Charles' anger radiate from him. He did not need a punch in the face to add to his misery. His temper had gotten the better of him when he stepped into the library and he heard the pair of them talk about their unborn child, a child who would possibly change his life forever. Of course he had been unable to keep calm, though he has been trained by Charles, though he normally could, was very proficient at it. He sighs. The wet, rasping sound makes him want to vomit. He is disgusted with himself.
He pulls the covers up higher. The sheets are soaked from his feverish sweats and he finds that even moving his hand hurts. He clings onto the sheets. The last thing on his mind before he slips into unconsciousness is how he ought to have been more grateful, how he should have tried harder, that he had it all and that he threw it all away.
For nothing but his pride.
When Crawley arrives at the bunk with the doctor, he's too late. Thomas Barrow has slipped into a fever induced coma, from which he will never wake up.
Mourning clothes seem strangely off, he thinks as he observes his wife, who appears to be bursting with life. She'd had to have dresses especially made, the ones she had were not accommodating her present condition. She is looking healthy, glowing. She has a healthy appetite and she keeps to the doctor's advice of daily rests and walks.
The almost undetectable bulge of weeks ago has made place for a bump of considerable size. In the privacy of their bedroom she allows him to touch her skin and he can feel the movements of their child pressed against his hand. The first time he felt it she had nodded passionately, told him it was magical. These days she closes her eyes at times, furrows her brow. The baby kicks against her ribs, pushes up, making it hard for her to breath. But she bears it all with a smile. She still sews and leafs through catalogues* picking out everything she needs before the baby will be born. She's written letters to her mother debating the use of a wetnurse and as far as he knows there's not been made a decision.
He knows she tries to remain cheerful - an act she only dropped when the news of Thomas' death reached them, three weeks after the event. His cousin now lays buried in a graveyard in Malta**, far from home. Charles feels guilty about the turn of events. He had thought sending Thomas to India would prove a way for Thomas to understand how privileged he was, how lucky to live under the protection of the Downton estate. With the comforts of the Abbey and the lures of London always nearby. Sarah would have welcomed Thomas with open arms, he had been sure of it. The pair of them had always been two peas in a pod.
Thankfully the next bit of news had been happy and came to them in the form of a telegram, addressed to him. John Bates shared the news of a healthy baby boy being born to Anne and him and that the child was to be christened Charles Henry. She had grabbed his forearm, her cheeks wet from happy tears. He had been quite touched himself.
They have not discussed naming the baby. Customs dictate a boy will be named after her father, a girl after his mother. Or the other way around. All in all he doesn't much care, he just want his wife to come through relatively unscathed and for the child to be strong and healthy. He tries not to think about it - it makes his breath hitch in his lungs, his heart speed up, his head swim with worry -, only makes certain his wife is as comfortable as she can be and that she feels well cared for.
He sends a carriage over to the Dower House every other day to pick up Beryl. His sister provides Elsie with much needed distraction. Her stories are entertaining, make Elsie laugh. Beryl knows all the gossip from the village and candidly shares news she's heard tell about their mutual friends. Beryl has promised to be present when Elsie's time comes, to aid the doctor and Charles is grateful for his sister to ease his fears somewhat.
He's been standing in the door opening for at least ten minutes looking her her, marvelling at her beauty when she suddenly lowers her catalogue and presses her lips together tight. She frowns and sighs.
"Alright…" He hears her whisper. "Now, there's no need for alarm." She takes a deep breath, holds it and lets it out again. She picks up her catalogue and turns the page. Charles finally enters the room, thirsty for a cup of tea and a bit of attention from his wife.
"Goodmorning, dearest." He says - though it is going on eleven - and plants a kiss on her hair before sitting down across from her. He pours himself a cup of tea.
"Goodmorning, Charles." She smiles at him, little wrinkles appearing around her eyes. Laughter lines, they look like rays of sunshine. "I thought you were speaking with some of the tenants today."
"Ah, that was earlier. I am completely at your disposal the rest of the day." He leans over and grabs her hand and kisses the palm.
She winces.
"That's good…" She bites her bottom lip hard. "Because I think you'll be rather busy with me until much later."
"It will be my pleasure." He frowns at the grip his wife possesses in her hand as she squeezes his.
"I doubt that. But I do need a bit of a favour." She is visibly pulling herself together.
"Anything for you, you know that. It will be my privilege." He says gallantly.
"Good. Alright. You must send word to the doctor and send a carriage for Beryl." She looks him straight in the eye. "It's time."
He will never forget the rush of blood to the head at hearing those words.
* according to my research there was an Englishman (Pryce Pryce-Jones - what kinda name is that?!) starting a postal order service in 1861 - perfect for it to have become popular in Yorkshire by the time my story plays out
** the shipping route for passenger ships was over Malta, since the Suez canal opened in 1869